Two weeks later, Elisabeth and Carl were holding auditions for Say When. Kay so wanted this to be an exhilarating time for her and Jimmy, but the director and producer stipulated that the financiers were forbidden to assert oversight rights. Precisely two of their songs, “Little White Lies” and “When the Lights Turn Green,” would be interpolated.
Having experienced the preproduction of A Connecticut Yankee Kay understood the process, which involved ruthless self-criticism and the willingness to alter every detail, depending on what happened when dance shoes hit floorboards.
Dick Rodgers, not a particularly generous man, was touting Kay as the best rehearsal pianist in New York. Nevertheless, the producers of Say When barred her and Jimmy from pre-production. Jimmy, ever the optimist, consoled her that their purpose was to hear their songs performed on a Broadway stage.
Only when the night of the dress rehearsal arrived did Kay and Jimmy learn that their two songs had been dropped in, rather than showcased. The audience applauded politely but Kay listened in vain for the uproarious response she had expected. The show as a whole was only mildly entertaining; the audience response, tepid.
Kay wondered how this could have happened, what could have gone so wrong. Everyone involved in Say When was experienced, hardworking, and ambitious. How could all of them, pooling their resources, have failed so miserably? Elisabeth and Carl had been convinced they had a hit.
The only answer Kay could come up with was that a show was not a show until it had an audience. Its worth could not be measured prior to that because it did not yet exist. A show was not just a performance; it was more like a collective dream, a collaboration between spectators’ minds, singers’ voices, and writers’ imaginations.
The prebooked eleven-day stint sped by like a snail in mud. Fifteen performances and hardly a notice in the papers. Aleck Woollcott promised Kay he would refrain from reviewing Say When, out of mercy. Kay and Jimmy reconciled themselves to the reality that no hit would emerge. Kay sighed through the last performance. And then it was over.
Just another show, she told herself as she exited the Morosco Theatre. Another group of theatergoers spilling onto the sidewalk. Jimmy would survive. So would she.
She thought too about the writer, the actors, the dancers, the comedians, and the director, all praying for that big break. So many careers, so many lives. Where would they all go? How many would give up now, or try again—and yet again—before throwing in the towel? Who would sink into depression, and who would discover a way out? Who would merely survive, and who would find redemption?
When Kay’s mother died of breast cancer, in the summer of 1928, she and Jimmy wanted to cover the costs of the burial but learned that Ellen had prepaid the service and burial and left a set of instructions. Even in death, Ellen preserved her pride and solicitude. On a balmy July morning the congregation of St. Ignatius sang hymns composed by Gertrude Swift and the organist played Sam Swift’s meticulous arrangements. A handful of Ellen’s friends—fellow British expats, former clients, members of her Bible study group—rode in horse-drawn carriages up to the burial grounds, where Father Ganter sermonized not about the departed congregant, his friend, or her exemplary life but about the faith they shared and the salvation they expected. “Because Jesus was raised from the dead,” he reminded his parishioners, “we too shall be raised.”
His words touched Kay. She remembered that faith. The recollection shrouded her like a shadow, indistinct yet as somber as the suits and dresses that surrounded her. The pallbearers lowered Ellen’s coffin into the pit, and grief overcame Kay. Her shoulders shaking, she buried her face in her husband’s lapel. Emotions seemed to flow from beyond her conscious mind, through her body, as if her ancestors were using her to express their sorrow. Kay knew they dwelled within her, memories of memories.
Ellen’s had been a small life, fashioned of modest ambitions and unassailable loyalties. In many ways, Kay had unconsciously designed her personality in opposition to her mother’s. Still, Ellen’s devotion had been her foundation.
She could not cease sobbing until Father Ganter tapped her shoulder and handed her a shovel full of dirt. She wiped her tears and, as she poured the final heap onto the mound, felt she was burying not only her mother’s life but her own life up to that point.
She shoved the spade into the soil and, looking up, noticed a dirigible above the horizon, hundreds of feet long, glistening in the sky, its passenger gondola suspended beneath. She thought of Ellen’s soul hovering above them, silent and watchful. Other mourners’ eyes followed hers. A cloud swallowed the airship.
The reception took place at Ellen’s Upper West Side apartment, where Kay and Jimmy had been married ten years earlier. As the other mourners nibbled on whitefish and sipped chilled wine, Kay sensed Father Ganter’s eyes on her. She approached him at the back of the room.
“We’ve all heard about your advantageous marriage and modern lifestyle,” he told her, glancing through the guests toward James, who was talking quietly with a group of Kay’s distant relatives. “We’re proud of you, Katharine. We hope you found what you were seeking.”
Perhaps it was the emotion of the moment. Perhaps it had something to do with being back in this apartment, among family acquaintances. Perhaps she simply needed someone to talk to. Whatever the reason, Kay spoke more openly to Father Ganter than she might have expected. “I’m not sure I have found what I was seeking, Father.”
Father Ganter frowned. “Is everything not working out as expected between you and James P. Warburg? By all accounts he’s a remarkable man.”
“Yes, he is,” said Kay. “And I do love him. It’s just that… I’m no longer certain what that means.”
Father Ganter nodded gravely. “It’s not just a sentiment, after all, is it. It’s a blending of families. Of histories. The two lineages have to be compatible.”
“You’re referring to Jimmy’s religion?” asked Kay.
He nodded. “A religion is not a hat you can take off and put on at leisure. A religion is a moral universe. What does your husband believe about the destiny of man, or our purpose in history?”
She shook her head. She had no idea what Jimmy thought about these matters.
“Does the man believe in anything?”
“He believes in reason,” said Kay. “He took a course or two at Harvard. Descartes, Kant, the Enlightenment. Also Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. I can’t argue with him. I never read any of that. I was too busy practicing arpeggios.”
Father Ganter nodded. “One thing about reason, though: you can argue anything. Some use reason to support carnal lust. Or to justify killing unwanted babies. Lord have mercy. And then, some use reason to bolster the Golden Rule that our Lord gifted us. But morality does not flow from reason, and the Golden Rule needs no support. Kant was a genius but he was wrong about that. Dead wrong.”
Kay felt there might be truth in the reverend’s words but distrusted this feeling. She had grown up in his church and been conditioned in it. Of course her gut would agree with him. This observation, however, did not lead her closer to solving her problems. “Jimmy’s a good man,” she said.
“There’s a map for where you’re standing,” said Father Ganter. “You just can’t read the signs.” He smiled sadly. “Maybe someday.”
“Or maybe I can read them but something in me is resisting.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” he advised her. “The problem isn’t you. It’s our culture of self-gratification. All the rest—our confusion, our sense of unfulfillment, even the momentary exhilaration of our stock market profiteers—it all flows from there.”
Kay smiled.
“Listen to your heart,” Father Ganter advised her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “And do keep in mind, no matter what happens, you have a home. God is eager to forgive, if only you ask, Katharine.”
She covered his hand with hers, on her shoulder. “Thank you, Father.”
“Your mother has moved on,” he said. “I myself will be retiring. But our mother church will always be here.”
His smile struck Kay as deficient, the pious simper of the professional cleric who earned his bread by displaying bought-and-paid-for compassion. But later, as she and Jimmy rode home, Kay reflected on Father Ganter’s words. The church is your home. Despite the degradation of her marriage, despite the cynicism born of frustrated hopes, she appreciated his effort. Even if she sensed that destiny would not lead her back to St. Ignatius but somewhere else entirely.